Distorted
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: It's not much fun otherwise. BelarusxAmerica, onesided RusBel, onesided RusAme.


~*oOo*~

* * *

She already knows how this is going to end. But she has to try anyway.

Her muscles are weak from underuse, and her bare foot slips on the greasy floor. The young girl tumbles to the ground with a grunt, but in a flash she has staggered to her feet again, though a pair of arms seizes her around the waist. The would-be escapee whips her head around, matted hair flying as she kicks the uniformed man in the chest, sending him flying backward with a gasp of pain. From the awful _crack_ing sound that shoots through the air, she rightfully guesses that she has managed to break one of his ribs.

Fleeing for the door once again, she doesn't see the other two orderlies skulking in the corners behind her, who both grab her limbs just as her fingertips brush against the cold metal of the front door. They attempt to soothe her with garbled words, wrestling with her, who fights like a captive coyote ensnared by ropes. One of them angrily socks her in the front, successfully knocking the wind out of her.

Belarus's head lands against the linoleum with a noisy THUD, and the taste of rust fills her mouth. Stars flash across her eyes, but she blindly continues to gnash her teeth, ripping desperately at the front of her chest as she tries to free her arms. Hands make to grip her shoulders, but she immediately bites one of them, and a piercing shriek fills the air. Someone pounds at her with their fists, pull at her long, filthy hair and yank painfully, but she refuses to release her jaws.

Hot blood ooze past her chapped lips—her own and his—making them gleam in the weak overhead lighting in the filthy hallway.

"She's at it again!" The attendant cries, kicking the emaciated young woman in the stomach and sending her crashing to the floor again, freeing his now bleeding hand. "For Christ's sake, **_someone sedate her!"_**

The sound of footsteps hurtle down the hallway, and dull colors blur before Natalya Braginski's world as hands fight against her flailing limbs, attempting to hold her down. She writhes like a maggot, hissing dangerously as she tears and bites at the straps of her straitjacket with her teeth until her jaw aches, but the straitjacket remains snugly wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms at her sides.

Something flashes above her and Natalya _screams_, screams bloody murder as they plunge the metal syringe into her body, sending liquid fire rushing through her veins. The room starts to spin chaotically, and the foundation underneath her is trembling like so many waves, though the liquid-like feeling just might be a siege arms rushing her to the "special room."

The Belarusian's voice gives out on her in a silent scream as she hurtles through empty air—and then darkness.

~*oOo*~

When she wakes in a dark and padded cell with a splitting headache, Natalya discovers that she's lying on something soft. She also realizes, with no small amount of consternation on her part, that she has been strapped down again. Natalya bites down on the inside of her mouth—which tastes of sawdust—until she tastes rust. Brilliant. Another escape attempt thwarted, and now the doctors will be warier of her than ever, wise to her impassive act. She closes her eyes and presses her face against the infuriating plush, screaming until it feels like her throat will tear.

_An asylum._ Even now, after too many godless hours in this hellhole it seems unbelievable that anyone would dare to imprison a country. Belarus halfheartedly nips at her front, hoping beyond hope that she can tear the damned thing off, but no such luck. The straps hold her against the ground, and though she struggles like a wildcat in her drug-induced haze, there's no way out.

Belarus pounds her feet against the soft floor and shrieks: "**LET ME OUT!** LET ME OUT, YOU FILTHY PIG BASTARDS AND SONS OF WHORES! I'LL GET YOU **ALL** FOR THIS! I WILL FIND YOU ALL AND KILL ALL OF YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS BEFORE I RIP OUT YOUR THROATS! NOW LET ME OUT! Let me out!"

She even throws in a few crocodile tears and fake sniffles when a reply cannot be heard.

"Please…."

But only silence meets her ears. It occurs to her that she cannot remember the last time she has actually cried. Natalya buries her face in the floor as ringing silence enters her ears. She is too tired to cry out anymore—perhaps they cannot even hear her if she is in this awful padded chamber.

They had thrown her into a madhouse. A prison would have had more dignity, a dungeon less torture. Here orderlies skirted around her, trying to make her attend therapy and talk about _feelings_—who were these squealing piglets, Ukraine?—and forced drugs down her throat when she demanded her freedom.

It wasn't fair. They chastised her, lectured her on the importance of managing "inappropriate feelings"—well, perhaps she would be a smidgen less murderous if they let her out—and had the nerve of locking her away for "her own safety."

Her dark eyes narrow into slits, shining with unmistakable hatred.

They couldn't keep her here forever; she was no human. Eventually Russia's children or her own would come for her and then, the marriage ceremony Russia had promised would come.

Natalya's trapped hands tighten desperately from within her straitjacket. One night, after she had pried the boards away from her brother's windows and let herself in, she had caught her alarmed brother in bed and at last gave him an ultimatum; if he did not wed her, she would kill herself.

Ivan had pleaded with her, begged her to see "reason," but Natalya was sick of waiting. Sick of desperately pining alone, sick of being sent away from her darling's side. Countries didn't typically wear wedding bands, but she wanted his on her finger, his arms around her. She wanted him to love her, if only a fraction of the adoration and attention she so freely lavished on him.

And Russia had at last agreed. _'Come to my house again tomorrow night,'_ he had said, and they would find a small church nearby to make them one flesh. Bursting with happiness, Natalya had agreed, and stumbled out the door practically drunk with excitement. She immediately went to work on finding a grand wedding dress—cost had been no objection, of course—and bought a magnificent bouquet of sunflowers.

Dressed in white, she had rushed to her big brother's house at midnight, where he had been waiting.

With a team of medics, who had taken the completely off-guard bride by surprise, and yanked her into a padded car. While she threw herself against the bars, imploring her big brother to come to her rescue, he had just watched her with big purple eyes, picked up her fallen bouquet, and disappeared into his house as the truck pulled away down the hill into the night.

She had been _tricked._

She had been _betrayed. _

But _Never tricked. Never betrayed. _This was the last test of her faith, of her devotion to her darling big brother. Once he saw that she would never relinquish her love for him, he would come in a carriage and free her, marrying her and marking her as his own. Then, the two could paint the world black together.

Natalya rolls onto her side and closes her eyes. It has been days, weeks, perhaps months since she was interred here. She has no concept of time, and perhaps that is a good thing. It's getting unbearably lonely here without Ivan, and she'd long ago grew weary of people stripping her bare and washing her body down with hoses and stuffing food inside of her mouth.

It's only her burning desire for Ivan that keeps her alive, keeps her from turning her face to the wall and truly losing her mind. Everything else, as it very often has felt to the Belarusian, is meaningless.

~*oOo*~

When she wakes up again, the padded door has been open and a keen-eyed young nurse is looking down at her. Natalya glowers at her from the soft floor, wishing for one of her trademark knives.

Better yet, she would love to have one of her hands free to use said knives, though she supposed her mouth or her feet would do in a trice….

"Miss Alfroskaya?" asked the nurse. Natalya has not seen her face before; she is very likely new here. Her eyes are annoyingly young and perky, haven't yet acquired the resigned, world weary look so many doctors here carry in their eyes."You have a visitor. A young man is here to see you."

Natalya's eyebrows disappear into her bangs, surprise soaking her body like cold water, leaving her numb.

Who else can it be but her dear brother, here to rescue her at last? The only other man Belarus can think of who would be stupid or pathetic enough to visit her here is Lithuania. While the thought of seeing the mousy-haired, wishy-washy idiot is enough to make her feel sick, Natalya knew that he would do whatever she asked of him, even if it meant sawing his own arm off. If she demanded he slip her a weapon of some type, Toris would in all likelihood be able to smuggle it to her.

A small, grim smile falls on her dirty face as the nurse unstraps her, and she slowly creeps out of the padded room. She doesn't even bother to resist the nurse's arms as she gently pushes her into a wheelchair—she was NOT an invalid—and pushes her down the hall.

~*oOo*~

But she's wrong on both accounts.

To her great disappointment, it is not Russia standing in the lunchroom with a bouquet of sunflowers and a gentle smile on his face. It is not even Lithuania, holding a cake and oversized stuffed animal with his very breakable fingers. A young man with a crop of gold hair is sitting at a picnic bench, staring into a Styrofoam cup of coffee with something perched next to his elbow. As the nurse pushes her closer to him, Belarus recognizes the bane of her big brother's existence, with his unmistakable glasses and blue, blue eyes.

He looks up as the nurse cheerfully pushes the horrified Belarusian towards the nation to a stop.

"Hey," said America, looking her up and down, a large and goofy grin on his face. "How're you doing, missy?"

Belarus stares. Tries to get off the wheelchair and leave through the front doors. But the attendant only shoves her back down and murmurs reprovingly, "Now Miss, Mr. Jones was kind enough to come all this way just to see you. You might as well be gracious, you know."

"Thanks, peach," says America appreciatively, flashing the woman one of his charming smiles and making her blush. "I'll take it from here."

The nurse giggles, unwraps the jacket from around Belarus's shoulders, adds the warning that it can be put back on at any time, and trotts away. Belarus just gawks at America, who has turned his gaze back to the shrunken-looking Belarusian, who is staring at him suspiciously.

Alfred says nothing for a moment or two. He seems to be appraising her. "You're looking pretty….pretty awful, if you don't mind my saying so."

But Belarus DOES mind, minds so much she seethes at him, her cold, mean eyes narrowed. America just looks at her, expression impassive.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps irritably, when America will not break the silence. Strange, he normally doesn't leave any ROOM for silence with his obnoxious voice and hateful whining.

Alfred smiles and sat down.

"I brought you some food," he says unnecessarily, pointing to the large, greasy red and white bag on the table. He pushes it towards her. "Figured that hospice food normally tastes like shit, so I picked up some Mickey D's on my way here. I can get the Happy Meal for you next time if you like. You look like you could use a smile."

Belarus just looks at him. Opens the bag. Unwraps the large sandwich, eerily quiet.

And then, she flings it at his face, shaking the bag over his hair so that golden fries danced out and hit the American for good measure. Alfred just blinks, a pickle oozing down his ketchup-covered nose.

"Okay, cheeseburgers aren't your forte." He comments dryly, grabbing a napkin and wiping himself off. Much to Belarus's displeasure, he doesn't storm away or hurl angry insults at her. "Well, I'll have to get something else next time. What do you like?" he asks in a businesslike voice, as if he is a waiter taking her order at a drive thru.

Belarus says nothing, though she wrinkles her nose in disgust. America raises a thin eyebrow.

"Do you like sweets?" he asks. Nothing. America sighs. "No? Do you like anything? Besides Russia?" he adds, watching how the girl's nails sank into her palm. "I think I've seen enough world conferences to know that you're nuts over him. Wish I could send him here in a great big bow for you, but that's a lot of shipping and handling costs. Then, there's catching the guy to begin with, though I guess you could use sunflowers and vodka as bait. Nah, you're better off just telling me what you like. Cotton candy? Teddy bears? Ice cream cones?"

The look Natalya is giving him suggests that she is trying with all of her mental might to restrain herself from tearing out his innards. Alfred chuckles, face still covered in condiments.

"Can't take a joke? Don't exactly blame you." His voice drops. "When I—"

"America, you bloody daft idiot, let's go already!"

Something flickers in America's eyes for a fraction of a second, but whatever it is, it is gone, and America is cheerily waving at his former colonizer, who is standing across the lunchroom with his arms crossed, his face lined with ill-disguised repulsion. "You realize that this is insane, right? This place is a wretched mess of freaks, and you're looking at the worst of them all! Give it up. I want to go home already!"

Belarus seethes, but when her eyes flicker to a nearby plastic fork, she realizes that she is surrounded by several large grunts in the lunchroom, most of whom are eying her suspiciously, needles at the ready on their waists. Her spirits sink.

No hope of tearing out England's eyes. It wasn't as if America wouldn't try to stop her anyhow. The blond nation stood up while Belarus admired her dirty hands.

"Kay, Artie! Just give me a minute," America chirps with his usual annoying bravado before turning back to the patient still sitting in her wheelchair. "Isn't there anything you want to eat? I know it'd be hard for you starve to death, but it's not good for you if you don't."

At last, Belarus broke her silence, her hoarse voice terrible and threatening.

"I'd rather die than eat something YOU brought, you idiot pig." There. Those are the words that will drive him far away from her.

Far from looking affronted, America just scoffs.

"Yeah, because your bro really wants a girl who looks like a homeless person," says Alfred sarcastically, voice lowering and losing the childish tone once again. Natalya flinches as though she had been slapped. "Seriously honey, you look like a half-starved cat. And you smell like death as well as you look it."

He walks away towards England, helping himself to a stray fry that was still on his head. "Well, I'll figure it out eventually. Take care, Bella."

The young woman seizes a nearby plastic fork as a team of orderlies rush towards her. She staggers to her feet and rushes at him, aiming for his throat. But the nation only whips around upon hearing England's warning cry, grasps the struggling girl by the wrists, and plucks the fork out of her hands before sending it skittering to the ground.

Belarus glowers at him, glowers at him with all the rage and detestation inside of her as England yelps: "There, you see! She's a lost cause, she's in the loony bin for god's sake! Now give up your crusade and let them lock her away in a box of starving tigers or something!"

America mutters something cold underneath his breath as he shoves Belarus away from him, and into the arms of an orderly. But the words don't seem to be directed at her. In another second, the optimistic cheer is on his face, and the country again reminds the struggling Belarus of the young nurse from before.

"Well, at least I can figure out what you DON'T like," he says amicably, turning to go. "Thanks for the lesson."

Spitting and snarling, Natalya is dragged out of the room on one end, and America and England are exiting on the other side. England wanders over to America and places an arm on his elbow before guiding him out of the room, lecturing fussily.

America turns his head ever so slightly, and Belarus is momentarily stunned; the look on his face is not so much one of pity, but one of _commiseration._

Belarus's eyes widen as she's dragged back to her cell, but amazement soon turns to cold fury; how could that overindulgent, arrogant pig bitch realize just _what _she was suffering for her dedication, what pain and humiliation she felt to be seen in such a way by another nation?

The moron is going to suffer terribly for this. One way or another.

Nevertheless, that night, Natalya showers, for the first time in weeks. And she takes a few reluctant nibbles of her food, which tastes bland and soggy on her tongue.

~*oOo*~

The next day, America comes back. The nurse wheels the unwilling patient down the hallway, buckling her in so that she doesn't attempt to escape again. Belarus just puts on her nastiest face and looks at her bare feet, determined this time to not say a single word. She is still looking obstinately at the ground when the wheels on her chair stop turning, and she hears the nurse and America exchange some meaningless pleasantries. When the nurse exits, she listens to America sit down on the creaky old bench and push something towards her.

An unexpected smell catches her attention, and she finds herself looking up before she can help herself. A dark red beet soup, generously covered with sour cream.

"Brought you some borscht," America says, suddenly very interested in his fingernails. "Don't worry; I didn't poison it. I thought about making a Belarusian dish, but most of your cuisine seems to be Russian, oddly enough." He looks up with a wan smile. "Actually, borscht is more of a Ukrainian dish than anything else, but I wouldn't tell your bro that."

Belarus gives him an unfriendly frown, but her stomach rumbles imploringly, and a hot blush immediately erupts on her face. Ears turning scarlet, she stares at her lap and tries to control her breathing. Tipping the bowl of hot soup over America's head is a remarkably tempting idea, but she'd very likely be restrained and put back onto the accursed drugs that blend reality and illusion into a meaningless drift.

Besides, it would be a terrible waste of soup. However, she refuses to touch her spoon. Suspicion bubbles inside of her into a hot, smoldering resentment.

"Why are you here? If you want to make fun of me, I—"

"Nah," America responds earnestly, looking up again. "Not here to pick on you, honest. Though I can if you want me to," he adds, leaning back at his seat and staring at the dingy ceiling. "Still, I think my government gets after yours a lot as it is for not being 'democratic' enough."

Belarus continues her cold stare, but she's starting to waver just a little. She tries to distract herself from the soup; she hasn't fallen THAT far as to accept charity from this idiot boy her brother loathes so much.

"Then why….?"

But America is now looking into her soup bowl.

"To be honest, the only dishes that are truly mine come from the native peoples who used to live on my continent," he comments, picking up Belarus's spoon and giving the steaming bowl a good stir and sniff. "It actually wasn't bad stuff, though some of the tribes had stuff like 'bird brain soup.'" He makes a face and shakes his head. "Still better than England's food though. But I didn't mind pretending to like it, because it made him so happy to see me eat the burned crap he made."

He gives the soup another stir.

"I would have done anything to make him happy."

Belarus sniffs.

"You think I'm going to feel sorry for you?" she asks carelessly as the spoon falls back into the bowl. "That just because I'm locked inside of this awful place, you can come and be friendly with me? That I will actually care about your incessant, childish whining?"

Alfred snorts. "Sister, if I wanted to whine, we would be here for a long, long time. Maybe that's why you don't open up to your therapist," he comments thoughtfully. "You've probably got floodgates of garbage you don't wanna share, considering your history. You've been passed around like a party platter and you lost a third of your population after the last Great War. How did you stand that?" he asks, apparently oblivious to the fact that Belarus has now becoming a human statue.

He lets out a long sigh that seems to wander around the room before drifting to the window, which has been sealed shut. "Hell, once you get it going, do you honestly think you're gonna be able to stop? I think I see where you're coming from, sister."

Belarus throws the bowl of soup at him. America ducks, but a good amount of the purplish liquid splashes him, liberally covering his white shirt with red stains.

"Go away," she snarls. "Now."

Alfred shrugs, stands up, and heads for the door as a crew of doctors rush to seize an unresisting Belarus into their custody.

"Fine," the American says carelessly. "But when I come again tomorrow, I'm not leaving until you take three bites of your soup. Then I'll be out of your hair, sister."

Belarus's cold eyes narrow.

"For good?" she can't help but ask. She almost can _hear_ the foul country smirk as he heads out the door.

"You wish."

~*oOo*~

Either America is very brave or very stupid. Very likely both.

She tells the nurse she doesn't want to see him. That she has to go to the lavatory. That she's not feeling well. But her attendant, who probably just wants to have another glimpse of the stupid upstart, insists on wheeling her down again anyway. This time she's ready with a list of harsh words and insults buzzing in her head, all of which swivel down the drain when she sees what America is holding today.

"Brought you some flowers," he says as he lowers the pot onto the table with another steaming bowl of borscht.

Astonished, Belarus looks at the pot and tries to grab it so that she can smash it to the floor, maybe force-feed the dirt and clay shards to the hideously stupid man before her. But America snatches the pot out of her reach and holds it above her head. He doesn't seem to care that she's eyeing the hot bowl of soup that he's left in front of her, in perfect position to fling.

"I didn't mean it like THAT, princess," he insists, sitting down with his arms wrapped around the little pot of cornflowers. "Just thought you'd like to feel some fresh earth between your fingers for a change. If you weren't crazy beforehand, you'd probably go nuts without seeing a living plant in so long."

Belarus turns her attention back to her bare feet. America goes on, taking off his glasses and polishing the lenses with the corner of his bomber jacket.

"Though I guess you don't see very many to begin with, considering just how damn cold it gets at your house…..but maybe you can keep it in your cell. If all else fails, I'll let you throw it at me when you finish your three sips of soup."

Belarus still does nothing, deciding not to betray so much as a flicker of an eyelid. America doesn't seem to mind her silence.

"Was talking to the nurse. Apparently you guys get trips outside with good behavior points." He laughs and shakes his head. "And right now, you're score is at negative four. That's some accomplishment."

Still nothing. America puts Texas back on and folds his hands in his lap.

"Ever think of trying to be good? Or at least act like it? I think that's why the sociopaths are able to walk in and out as they please, because they know how to—"

America's words strike something deep inside of her, and not in a pleasant way. The angry girl leaps to her feet, and for the fourth time that week, people are rushing towards her. She makes no move to seize the soup or to try and rip the pot away from America's hands, however.

Right now, Belarus isn't consumed by the frenzy to wreck things. She feels splintered with fury. And irritably enough, _hurt._

"I am _not_—"

"—you're the least bit of a sociopath I've ever met," says America calmly, and to the amazement of an entire crew of doctors, Belarus sits down again. "Honestly, it's kind of refreshing. Most countries don't feel a damned thing anymore, and just put up a front so that their citizens don't freak out."

Another small smile. "China's so jaded, I'm amazed he gets out of bed in the mornings."

Belarus just hisses like an angry cat.

"Are you going to sit here all day?"

America shrugs.

"Probably."

Taken aback at the frank answer, Belarus tries another tactic.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Probably," he repeats, "But I'm not going until you've had your three bites. Or is it sips?" he added sardonically, "Do you eat soup or drink it?"

Belarus just shakes her head in disgust, deciding to humor America just the smallest bit. If he's only trying to goad her, perhaps he'll lose interest if she actually tries to play along.

"You eat it, you oaf."

"Spoken like a true professor," says America with one of his trademark, winning smiles that could charm the heart out of the surliest of bears. Belarus grinds her teeth. America tells her to eat the damn soup.

"I don't need your pity," she growls. "You think just because I am locked in this stinking hellhole that I need _help_, you ugly baby?"

America just smiles again.

"Three sips, then I'll leave you alone. Scout's honor."

Belarus blinks.

"But why?"

"Because I'm the heeeeero," America drawls out, the normal sincerity and warmth being replaced by an uncharacteristic sarcasm. He puts his head in his hand and stares at the table, tracing his fingertop over the graffiti that said things like 'This place sucks ass.' "Fucking hilarious, isn't it?"

"Are you saying you feel obliged to look after me? Who put you up to this?"

"No one," America says honestly, smiling again, though with none of his normal gusto. "But I want to talk to you."

Belarus sniffs.

"Good luck."

"Who said you ever had to talk back?" says America blithely, and Belarus wonders if hitting him dead on in the face with the cooling soup is worth another tranquilizer. "But that would be nice. At least no one gets after me when I say that I'm just here to make sure you don't waste away. Not that I'd care either way."

Belarus stares at him, and then reluctantly dips her spoon into the soup. If this soups kills her, she will kill him. After taking the most hesitant of licks, she deems the food edible and then quickly spoons in one, two, three bites before hurriedly setting her spoon down with a noisy clatter. "There. You can go now."

Without a word of protest, America gets up. "Gotcha. Catch you later." He gingerly sets the pot of blue flowers on the table again. "I heard these things are your national flower, so be careful with those. If you'd rather break something else, just tell me and I'll bring it in for you."

Only when America is out the door does it occur to Belarus that she should have asked him for a weapon. To hide a knife in a cake, or something. To slip her some matches. But why ever would he do that? When he meant 'anything,' he certainly didn't _mean_ that. Why would a man who boasted of his own heroism on a daily basis help a girl accused of insanity out of an asylum, especially when he could guess that she would send it up in flames?

Natalya worries at her pale pink lips.

And it was bad enough that she had been forced to accept charity from him before. She would never do so again.

Still….

Belarus looks down again at her bowl, and resumes eating.

So long as America doesn't see.

The flower pot is moved to Natalya's normal, unpadded room, where she sleeps for the first time in days.

~*oOo*~

The days trickle by. Every day, America comes at noon with a bowl of soup and every day Belarus is wheeled down to the lunchroom to see him. The nurse is praising her for her increasing docility, but Belarus never responds to the praises.

On some visits, Belarus doesn't say anything at all; doesn't bother to throw an insult America's way, though plenty of visits are consumed entirely by hot and bitter words. And sometimes, America doesn't even greet her or make small talk. The two nations spend those afternoons in silence, just staring at the walls or at other patients, who often move through this place like ghosts, completely wordless or mumbling inanely to themselves. It's surprisingly comforting, though often depressing.

True to his word, America leaves whenever she swallows the three spoonfuls. It's a small bit of control in Belarus's life and she clutches it tightly, sometimes eating immediately on her bad days just so that she doesn't have to hear the idiot talk at her about nothing. Other days, it's hard not to mind him blathering on, especially when he keeps her updated on the goings on in the world.

"I hear you've been refusing your meds," America says one sunny day. Or at least he mentioned it was sunny outside; this place has no windows.

As usual, Belarus says nothing. The two are at the normal cobwebby seat, and Belarus is stirring around her borscht. Three spoonfuls and America will go home and leave her be. Three spoonfuls and she will be alone. Three spoonfuls and she will be wheeled back to her cell.

She's not especially hungry today. America reaches for a small bag at his side, and pulls out a small carton. He noiselessly pushes it towards her.

"Talked to your brother the other day," he says quietly, and Belarus's head whips up as if she's been stung. But America continues on.

"He says you like gelatin," he remarks to himself before standing up. "I actually have a lot of paperwork today, so I leave you alone with both and—"

"Wait!" Belarus croaks desperately, sending the wheelchair to the floor with a crash. "Did he have a message for me?"

America begins to turn his head, but halts, as if he doesn't want her to see his face.

"No," he says unapologetically. "No, I just saw him and the G-8 conference and I asked him what you liked. He said you liked gelatin, and that was that."

The hope that had kindled inside of her and made her glow with warmth abruptly died; a frost on tender green sprouts.

"Why not?" she asks weakly, the room starting to spin and rock beneath her. For a moment, she isn't there at all, but being thrown into the air by a sea of strangers into some dark corner again. Cold disillusionment breaks over her neck as if someone has smashed an egg there. Disbelief._ No, no, it can't be so, he's lying, Russia's asked for me, asked for me! _Her lungs felt overfull in her chest, though she couldn't breathe. "Why not?" she asks again, voice very faint. "Why…."

"Because you're a desperate, manic reminder of just how pathetic Russia is," America says simply, as conversationally as if he were discussing the weather.

Belarus flies at him with a strangled roar, and a male nurse tackles her to the ground. With a well-aimed kick, she sends him flying backwards, and she flew at America again, ripping and tearing at every bit of skin she could reach. He doesn't try to stop her, even as nurses try unsuccessfully to yank her away.

"Do I need to get you a muzzle?" he asks quietly, his face bleeding. Belarus had left some nasty gashes all over his beautiful face. "But that's not gonna help things much, is it, Bella?"

She is drugged, and her body feels like it weighs a thousand pounds even as her mind drifts away, consumed in anguish. Again she is thrown into the darkness, and again she lands against the pillowed cell wall before she crumples to the ground.

He will never come back now.

Belarus will be here for the rest of her life.

~*oOo*~

But he proves her wrong; the next day, America shows up again, his face and hands covered in angry red slashes. "I told the people at the White House I tried to give a cat a bath," he remarks as Belarus glares at the straps buckling her to the wheelchair.

"I hate you."

America looks at her, looks away.

"I know," he says gently, apologetically. "I know."

Belarus tries to slide her thin wrists out from the restraints. Gives up. Shrinks in her chair. "Why do you come here?" she asks warily. "Political reasons? You seek to better ties between Belarus and the United States?"

America leaned back in his seat, lazily contemplating his interlocked fingertips.

"Nah. I'm not here for political reasons. Though that's what I told my boss why I keep coming every day." He smiles. Belarus frowns.

"I think you are laughing at me. You are always smiling." The words are out before she can stop herself. America's blue eyes wander to her dark ones. His gaze is tired and sad.

"To be honest, I almost never feel like smiling," he admits.

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because I can," he said, looking at a patient who was whimpering on the floor, curled up in a ball. "Because if I don't, I'm pretty scared I'll forget to. Because a happy go lucky idiot boy is surprisingly easy to love. Because otherwise, I'm pretty sure people will think me a sociopath and I'll wind up in here with a cell next to yours. Don't get me wrong—that'd be kind of nice," he added hastily, standing up as Natalya starts to eat her soup. "A relief. But I worked too hard for too long for freedom, and I don't do too hot behind bars. See ya, Natalya." He turns to leave again.

"Wait." She orders imperiously. "Wait."

He turns.

"Bring me more gelatin," Belarus demands, her face growing redder and redder with each passing second. Perhaps she's finally cracked and became insane herself. "A-and something sweet."

America doesn't laugh, but he gives her a genuinely kind smile. Not an artificial beam that looked like it was ready to tear his face off, but a small, genuine grin. He kneels, catching Natalya's foot when she tries to kick him. He kisses the shocked woman's leg, and respectfully saluted.

"Your wish is my command, fair lady."

And without another word, he leaves, leaving Natalya flustered and angry at the lunch table.

~*oOo*~

The screams from Belarus's room at night begin to quiet down to half-hearted yells, to silence, silence not brought on by drugs. One day, the nurse wipes away tears (This girl was so very much like Katyusha it unnerved her) as she tells her that today America will be meeting her _outside._

Outside.

The open sky is bewildering, bright, and kind of frightening, though the air she breathes in makes her giddy with its lack of mustiness. The young man is waiting for her on a green hill, his peach-dusted skin radiant in the sunlight, his cheeks rosy.

It's a picnic lunch, with Natalya's normal borscht in a thermos. The nurse wheels the cart away, and for the first time ever, the Belarusian is completely alone with the American, overlooking the hospital that looks so nice and welcoming from the outside.

"You know, the grounds out here are actually very pretty," Alfred said appreciatively, looking around before biting into his sandwich. "I guess they keep 'em looking nice so that the brochures are all nice and tranquil-looking."

Belarus plays with her spoon.

"Why do you come here?" She's not posing it as a question this time. America says nothing for a moment.

"I like you. You're interesting," he comments, finishing off his sandwich and leaning back, not seeming to care that his hands were in the dirt. His eyes wandered to the sky overhead, deep, cool and blue like the ocean. "If your personality was as pretty as your face, I wouldn't bother coming to visit. But you're like Tony."

Belarus furrows her brow. America wipes crumbs off his front.

"You don't bother wasting time with niceties. You let people know when you think everyone and everything's garbage, which is why you're here." He gestured around himself. "In happy fun time camp. Besides the fact that you chase your brother around, hoping that he'll lay you."

Natalya lets out a shriek. Alfred sighs.

"The truth will set you free, Bella."

"Don't CALL me that!"

"Okay, okay, you win," he says resignedly. "Not hating, just stating."

Natalya just glares at him. "Oho! I am a bad person for wanting to be happy? Do you think my feelings run so shallow as to only want _physical_ union with my sweet brother? I want him, _body and soul!"_

"Well, if he consents, you can have his soul," says America darkly. "I already had his body."

The ringing shot of stillness. Belarus sits still and firm, even as she feels her heart crack painfully beneath her lungs.

"….no."

"I'm afraid so," America murmurs, his ears turning red. Belarus just shakes her head, hating the flawless _honesty_ in his words.

"Why….you…_you don't dare_…but…_why did you sleep with him_?" Birds startled at her loud voice and immediately take off into the sky, even as hard drills of despair began driving into the small country.

"I slept with Russia for the same reason you slept with Lithuania," America said softly. Belarus's face blanched in surprise.

"Lies," she snorted, looking away, feeling a hot blush warm her face from the inside out, like a hot coal.

America groans and rolls his eyes. "It wasn't exactly hard to find out, y'know. Toris used to live with me. Considering how proud he was of himself, it was great when I had a day I _didn't_ have to hear about that." He chortles. "I heard you're one mean little cat when it comes to having sex. Didn't you practically rape the poor guy?"

Belarus says nothing.

"You slept with Toris because you thought it would make Ivan jealous," America said calmly, though the corners of his mouth turned down "I slept with your brother because….well…."

A pause.

"It's a long story."

"Whatever might have been the past, my brother loves me. He wants to become one with me." The words are coming from a stranger, someone Belarus isn't sure she knows anymore.

"Yeah. Good luck with that, babe," America says dismissively, standing up. "I gotta go…"

"What did you do?" asks Belarus wildly, seizing America by the ankles to keep him there. "What did you do to seduce my brother? WHY did you do it?" she demands furiously, her voice rising to a near scream. America's face colors again and he grits his teeth, burying his face in his hand.

"Because it got me what I wanted, I suppose." He says at last. "Don't get me wrong, I never had any intention of banging your bro, nor did I exactly WANT to. It just…happened. In the worst way possible."

"You were drunk, weren't you?" Belarus spats bitterly. America lets out a laugh, a laugh with no happiness in it.

"I wish. Trust me—that'd make everything so much easier." Shaking her off, America watches as the nurse bustles up the hill with the wheelchair. Belarus shoots him a dirty, accusing look as the nurse fingers the syringe at her waist warningly, and the Belarusian reluctantly back sinks into the wheelchair, not trusting her voice. Her throat feels like it was being squeezed, so very much choked by tears.

America casts her a commiserating smile, his face hopeless.

"Isn't that just life for you, though?" he says quietly as Natalya is wheeled away again. "The jackasses close to you get all the things you ever wanted and then have the nerve to bitch about it. I'm sorry, Natalya."

"Wait, please," begs Natalya, and the nurse is so surprised to hear her ask nicely, let alone speak to her, that she immediately obeys and comes to a direct stop. Alfred is watching her, expression guarded.

"What was it like?" Belarus begs, her voice catching. "What was it like to sleep with…with Vanya?" The name is beautiful, but now it stings painfully like acid, burning the back of her throat with an unpleasant taste and burn.

Nothing. America observes her as if she's a particularly interesting moth underneath the glass. "Warm," he says at last, "Warm, sad, and desperate."

The nurse coughs and looks away, but Natalya couldn't care less about her discomfort. She is hanging on to Alfred's every word:

"When it was done...pinned me down and strung me up in a dark room," he says coyly, pulling back his gloves to look at faint scarring on his wrists. "That part wasn't so much fun. It took me two days to get out of_ that_ one.

"And to answer your question," he adds, "Again, I'll say it: for the same reasons you did. It's only personal because you're letting it be, the way how Lithy decided that your little romp with him was you expressing your feelings." Natalya's gaze is unapologetic. "You used him, just like I used your brother. I'm not exactly proud of it, you know. Good night, Bella."

"Wait," she falters. "You wanted to sleep with my brother to make someone else jealous." A black serpent of jealousy was coiling around her heart. "Who was it?"

"England," he responds shortly, turning around to tug back on his leather gloves. "It wasn't as if we hadn't done it before." His head turns, and the American gave the girl the smallest of grins. "But I guess he lost interest in sex with me when I wasn't small and cute anymore."

Belarus just looks at him for a moment, her expression unchanging, though something appears in her dark eyes. To America, it looks like pain.

"I don't feel sorry for you." She announces, more to herself then to the other nation.

"I didn't expect you to." America returns mildly. "I think that's why I like you so much. See you later."

And with that, America strides down the hill and disappears, much like Russia did that fateful night with her bouquet of trodden-on sunbeams.

* * *

**This is a twoshot, folks-we'll have Part II when I've finished Carry You Home and Crown of Stars. (Which should hopefully be soon!) Belarus has some difficult questions to ask herself, and we might just learn a little bit more about America and his night with Russia.**

**Take care, loves. Please review. **


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